


Stay Young, Go Running

by spaceburgers



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Introspection, M/M, Post-Game(s), Slow Burn, Suburbia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 09:30:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11377401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceburgers/pseuds/spaceburgers
Summary: "I'm gonna stop by your hometown so you can show me around n' shit.""But there's nothing to see there.""Whaddya mean? You're there."





	Stay Young, Go Running

**Author's Note:**

> there's a serious lack of post-game pegoryu fics on ao3, so this is my attempt at fixing that
> 
> warning for endgame spoilers! also, the dialogue in the summary + at the start of the fic is lifted directly from the game itself :)

"I'm gonna stop by your hometown so you can show me around n' shit."

"But there's nothing to see there."

"Whaddya mean? You're there."

-

The first words out of Akira's mouth when he sees Ryuji at the train station are, "Your hair."

"Huh?"

"It's black," Akira clarifies. Ryuji blinks. It takes a moment before comprehension finally dawns on him.

"Oh! Yeah," he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I dyed it back to black at the start of the school year."

"Why?"

Ryuji looks away, suddenly self-conscious. Right. He forgot that he never actually told Akira about it. It'd been a spur of the moment decision; he'd been picking up some snacks at the convenience store when he saw the rows of hair dye, and something suddenly clicked in his head. Later that day he pressed the bottle into his mom's hand with a mumbled request, embarrassed, but she understood immediately, just smiled at him and told him she'd get a brush.

His hand in his hair shifts lower, down from his scalp to the back of his neck. He wonders if it looks strange to Akira.

"Nothin'," he says, shifting his feet. "Just felt like I needed a fresh start."

But when he finally looks back up at Akira, he's smiling, his eyes warm with understanding. It's only then that Ryuji finally lets himself look at Akira properly—the same dark messy hair, the same pair of glasses, that same familiar smile, and Ryuji's heart suddenly feels too full, like it's about to overflow at any second, happiness and relief and a whole cocktail of other emotions that he isn't quite ready to pinpoint just yet.

"It's good to see you again," Akira says, and everything collapses into a single burst of pure joy. A huge grin spreads over Ryuji's face, makes his cheeks ache. He probably looks like a maniac, but he honestly can't bring himself to care. He raises a fist, and Akira bumps it with his own, still smiling. It's so easy and familiar that Ryuji can almost forget the long weeks of separation and loneliness, of lying awake, staring at his phone and wondering if he should text, if he's being too clingy. Too desperate. But standing here, in the middle of a train station in some quiet, middle-of-nowhere suburb, it feels like no time has passed at all.

"You too, man," Ryuji replies, his voice thick with the weight of that statement, the sheer sincerity of it. "You too."

And then without thinking he pulls Akira into a one-armed hug. Akira's body is flush against his own, warm and solid. Hard muscle and soft flesh. Akira's breath is hot against Ryuji's shoulder, and suddenly it's too close, too much. He pulls away, as quickly as he'd gone in for the hug, and Akira's staring back to him, eyes wide, cheeks faintly flushed. Ryuji thinks he might be blushing too. Shit. He has to do something. _Think, Ryuji! Quick!_

" _Thisisforyou!_ " Ryuji blurts out in a moment of inspiration, shoving the paper bag in his hand at Akira. Akira takes it from him, looking puzzled.

"What?"

"It's for you," Ryuji says again, at a normal speed this time. "From everyone." He grins to cover his embarrassment. Akira peers into the bag.

"You got me... salmon?" Akira asks.

"No, dude! That's for Morgana!" Ryuji yells. Akira snickers. "The... the other thing."

Akira looks up at Ryuji again, and suddenly his gaze turns sharp, like he's seeing right through him. Ryuji shifts. Mercifully, Akira drops his gaze, reaching into the bag to pull out a small rectangular box.

"Whaddya waiting for?" Ryuji says. "Open it,"

Akira nods, then lifts the cover of the box. Inside it sits a perfect replica of his Joker mask. Akira's eyes go wide.

"Where did you—"

"Yusuke cashed in a favor with one of his artsy friends," Ryuji explains. "Do you... do you like it?"

Akira's expression smoothens out, blank, unreadable. He picks the mask up, turning it over and over in hands, his gaze intense, as if he's trying to drink in every single detail of it.

And then he puts it on, and Ryuji's breath catches in his throat.

For a second he looks just like he did back then, back in the Metaverse. Akira's always been a good-looking guy (and there's nothing wrong with acknowledging that, it doesn't mean anything, okay, it's an objective assessment, Ryuji isn't _blind_ ), but with the mask on he looks... he looks elevated. Otherworldly. In some ways that's not an exaggeration—Joker was always part of a higher plane, belonging to a different world as much as Skull and Mona and everyone else did, but that's not it. Joker was always a cut above everyone else, even then, that confident air and self-assured smirk. And Akira regains a bit of that when he puts the mask on, making Ryuji dizzy for a split-second.

But then the illusion gives way. When Ryuji looks closer it's obvious that the mask doesn't fit as well, slipping off Akira's nose slightly. No, they're not in the Metaverse anymore. The Metaverse doesn't exist anymore. They're just two teenagers standing in a train station, and Akira's just a boy with a mask on, clashing horribly with his casual sweatshirt and jeans combo.

Ryuji laughs, and Akira takes the mask off, smiling wryly.

"Not quite the same, huh?" he says. He runs his thumb across the edge of the mask, and suddenly he looks... sad. He looks sad, Ryuji realizes, and his stomach clenches.

"No," Ryuji agrees, for want of anything better to say. He smiles, lopsided, feeling strangely out of his element. "Somehow the sweatshirt’s kinda ruinin' the effect."

Akira looks down at himself.

"What's wrong with my shirt?"

"Nothin'," Ryuji says, "It's just so... normal, y'know?"

Akira's eyes flicker upwards, meeting Ryuji's gaze. He smiles.

"Yeah," he says, softly. "I think I know."

And before Ryuji can parse what exactly Akira means by that, he's shoving the mask back into the box, then turning around, gesturing with his head for Ryuji to follow him.

"Come on," he says. "Let's get home before the salmon goes bad. Or else Morgana's gonna be bitching at you for the rest of the week."

Ryuji pulls a face. "That damn cat's the same as always," he mutters, but he follows Akira anyway, the both of them stepping out of the train station and into the sunshine.

-

It's been almost a month and a half since Akira moved back home. During that time he's remained in close contact with the rest of the group, through texts and emails and Skype. They don't talk about targets or infiltration routes or how the world's gone to shit anymore. Instead they discuss school. Movies. Normal things. Teenager things.

Makoto and Haru are both in college now, Makoto at Tokyo University and Haru at a private women's college. Futaba just started high school. Ryuji, Ann and Akira will all have college entrance exams to worry about soon. Yusuke's exempt from that stress; he's applying to an art college, and is spending all his time building up a portfolio, although in Ryuji's opinion he has enough pieces to make up three separate portfolios all on his own, but what does Ryuji know about art, really?

Life moved on. It all seems like a dream, now, everything that happened last year.

Akira is proof, though. He's proof that it wasn't a dream. Everything started with him, after all: that day, just the two of them, wandering into Kamoshida's Palace, none the wiser about mental shutdowns and corrupt politicians and malevolent gods bent on subjugating all of humankind.

It all seems like a lifetime ago, but Akira's still here, real and solid, leading Ryuji through unfamiliar paths, past a park and past a playground, cutting through a row of stores and crossing street after street of similar-looking houses.

“Dude,” Ryuji says, “I can’t believe you _live_ here.”

Akira gives him a strange look. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s just so…” Ryuji pauses, trying to think of a word. “Peaceful,” he decides. Akira snorts.

“If by peaceful you mean _boring_ , then yeah, sure,” he says.

That’s not what Ryuji meant though. The streets are fairly empty; the only people they’ve passed by so far were a few elderly people, families at the playground, young mothers pushing strollers. It’s quiet in a way Tokyo never is. Even the air feels different, smells different. Ryuji inhales lungfuls of it, letting that clear scent fill his nose. He thinks about growing up here, where the most crowded place they’ve passed by so far was the local grocery store, so different from that cramped little apartment he and his mom share on the outskirts of Tokyo. He wonders if he’d end up getting used to this quiet tranquility, or if he’d eventually find himself developing an itch under his skin, telling him to go somewhere, anywhere else but here.

He wonders what Akira’s childhood was like.

“At least it’s good for runnin’ though,” Ryuji says. “It’s hard, going joggin’ in Tokyo. The streets’re too crowded, there’s always so many people everywhere. Plus there’s like, actual nature here, y’know?”

“It isn’t usually this deserted, it’s just that everyone’s on vacation for Golden Week,” Akira explains. “And besides, there _are_ parks in Tokyo, you know?”

Ryuji sighs. “It’s not the same,” he mutters. Akira turns to look at him, smiling.

“We’ll go running together some time,” he promises. “I’ve been keeping up.”

Ryuji’s eyes light up. “Really?”

Akira nods. He lifts his arm, pulling back the sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal the sports watch he’s wearing underneath. The sports watch Ryuji gave him as a farewell gift back in March, he realizes with a jolt. Ryuji sucks in a breath, his chest suddenly seizing up with emotion.

“Akira,” he starts to say, but just then Akira stops abruptly in front of a house.

“We’re here,” he announces. He digs into his pocket, pulls out a set of keys, and Ryuji falls silent as he watches Akira unlock the front gate.

“After you,” Akira tells him, smiling. Ryuji swallows, his throat suddenly dry.

“Thanks,” he says, and walks inside.

-

Ryuji’s staying with Akira for four days, over the Golden Week holiday. He’d felt antsy about leaving his mom home alone, but she’d practically shooed him out the door, telling him that she _needed_ the time alone without having to look after her son. Ryuji wanted to argue that he didn’t need looking after, that _he_ should be the one looking after her instead, but eventually he let his mom win the argument, bought the train tickets online later that night while she smiled at him, clearly pleased. Ryuji knows his mom’s happy that he has a proper group of friends now; he hasn’t had one since the Kamoshida incident. It probably helps too that his friend group includes: an honor roll student, a model, an artist, an heiress and… well, maybe hacker isn’t the best addition to that list. Neither is supernatural cat, now that he thinks about it.

And then of course, there’s Akira, who is—well. It’s impossible to attach a label to him. He’s Akira. That’s all there is to it.

So now here he is, toeing his shoes off at the front door, ducking in behind Akira, inexplicably nervous.

“Pardon the intrusion,” he says meekly. Akira laughs.

“You don’t have to be so polite,” he tells him.

“Are you sure?” Ryuji looks around at the front hall. It’s clean, sparsely decorated. There are a few family photos hanging on the wall. Ryuji’s going to inspect it properly at some point over the next few days. Possibly take some photos and send them to the group chat.

“Yeah, it’s just us anyway,” Akira replies. He pauses thoughtfully. “And Morgana too, I guess.”

“Wait, your parents aren’t home?” Ryuji tears his eyes away from the framed photos to look at Akira, but he’s already walking into the living room, back turned so Ryuji can’t see his expression.

“Nope,” Akira says, his voice completely casual. “They’re both abroad, so it’s just me.”

“Abroad?” Ryuji repeats. Akira nods, starting to make his way upstairs. Ryuji follows him, head swimming with that new piece of information.

“My dad’s company posted him abroad, and my mom decided to go with him,” Akira explains, as if he’s talking about the weather. Not like he’s talking about how his parents just straight up _abandoned_ him _._

“Wait, what?” Ryuji exclaims. “For how long now?”

“Since my first year of high school,” Akira replies, still with that too-casual tone of voice that makes Ryuji clench his fists reflexively. “They decided it was better for me to stay here and continue with my education.” He pauses, then laughs. “Well, they weren’t counting on me getting arrested and sent to Tokyo and all that, though.”

“How can you,” Ryuji says, freezing on the steps, his voice dangerously low, “how can you just say shit like that?”

Akira stops too, turns around. His expression is carefully blank. He shrugs, lifting one bony shoulder elegantly.

“It’s the truth,” he says. “And I don’t really mind anyway.”

And Ryuji wants to say—something. It’s the exact same thing as what happened outside Akira’s house, when he found his throat inexplicably dry at the sight of that watch on Akira’s slender wrist. His mind is spinning with emotions, but it’s not translating into words. His brain-to-mouth function isn’t working properly, so instead he ends up just standing there, gaping like a dead fish.

Thankfully, he’s saved from blurting out something totally embarrassing when Morgana comes barreling out of a room and launches himself directly at the paper bag in Akira’s hand like a heat-seeking missile.

“I smell salmon!” Morgana yells. “ _Really good salmon!”_

“Nice to see you too,” Ryuji snorts. Morgana stops trying to tear open the paper bag with his paws to glare at Ryuji. Ryuji didn’t even know cats were physically capable of glaring until Morgana happened.

“Ryuji,” Morgana greets. He says it like a threat. Ryuji grins back at him.

“Morgana,” he returns. “How’s the kitty life been treatin’ you, huh?”

“ _Kitty?_ ” Morgana jumps back down to the floor, turning to face Ryuji. Ryuji squats down, still smirking. Morgana looks extremely unimpressed. “I’m no _kitty_ , you vulgar—”

“Come on, guys,” Akira interrupts. Both Morgana and Ryuji turn to look at Akira, who towers above them with his hands on his hips, smiling faintly. “The salmon’s a gift from everyone, including Ryuji. Right?”

Akira fixes both of them with an expectant look. Morgana and Ryuji look up at him, then turn to look at each other.

“Thank you,” Morgana says at last, with a grudging sense of gratitude. Ryuji lets himself smile, a proper, genuine smile, not the mocking one he’d been flashing Morgana just a moment ago.

“Well,” Ryuji says. “We just thought it’d be nice to getcha somethin’ from Tokyo. Bet it was way better than livin’ in this dump, huh?”

“It’s not so bad,” Morgana says, scratching himself behind the ears. “All the neighbors love me. The old lady next door gives me fresh fish every morning.”

“Figures,” Ryuji mutters. Akira drops down into a kneeling position next to him, unwrapping the salmon and placing it on the floor.

“Here you go,” he says, and Morgana’s eyes light up. He pounces at it eagerly, mewling happily as he does. “If you’re not gonna finish the whole thing, let me know so I can put the rest in the fridge.”

“Won’t be a problem,” Morgana assures him, although his voice is muffled from all the salmon that’s currently crammed into his mouth. Ryuji rolls his eyes and gets up, dusting his jeans off.

“Let him be,” he says, and Akira nods, standing up too. “Come on, show me where I can put my stuff down.”

“Right.” Akira carefully steps past Morgana, padding down the hallway with Ryuji behind him. “This way.”

Akira leads him past a spacious bedroom with a double bed ( _his parents’ room,_ Ryuji thinks, and tries to quash the anger that rises in his gut at the thought) and into a smaller bedroom, the room that Morgana came running out of. It’s Akira’s bedroom, an actual bedroom, not a dusty attic above a coffee shop in the middle of Tokyo. Ryuji stops for a moment, taking it in. It’s fairly nondescript—simple, hastily-made twin bed, standard desk cluttered with a laptop and papers and notebooks, bookshelf filled with a mishmash of textbooks and manga volumes and novels.

Still, traces of Akira’s life peek through. On closer inspection, a magazine with a photo of Ann on the cover lies on Akira’s desk. A weird painting hangs on the far wall, and although Ryuji’s never seen it before, it’s unmistakably one of Yusuke’s pieces. A yellow scarf lies draped over the back of the chair—Morgana’s scarf, Ryuji thinks, judging by how small it is.

And of course, hanging over the bed is a bright red Phantom Thieves tapestry, the one they’d put up in Akira’s room in Leblanc, all those months ago. Ryuji grins, looking at it.

“Subtle,” he says. Akira looks confused for a second, but when he realizes what Ryuji’s looking at he laughs.

“You got me,” Akira says. “I’m a total Phanboy.”

“Yeah?” Ryuji asks, playing along. “Who’s your favorite Phantom Thief?”

“The leader, obviously,” Akira answers easily. “I mean, he’s so cool and handsome and manly, I bet he has all the ladies swooning after him…”

“Jerk,” Ryuji says, punching Akira on the arm lightly. Akira smirks at him.

“Just put your stuff anywhere you want,” Akira says. “Sorry, we used to have a guest room but it’s been converted to Morgana’s own private room.” He snorts. “I have a spare futon though, I’ll roll it out tonight.”

Ryuji nods, moving to drop his bag in a corner while Akira remains standing in the doorway. When he turns around he realizes Akira’s been watching him, his gaze heavy. There’s that strange tension again, from before. Ryuji swallows, shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Well,” he says. “Are you gonna show me around the neighborhood or what?”

The words seem to snap Akira out of his reverie; he blinks, his eyes clearing.

“Right,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Right before they leave, Akira sets his mask on a corner of his desk, gives it one last lingering look, and then shuts the door behind him.

-

So they walk. They pass by the sights Ryuji saw on the way from the train station, although this time their pace is slower. They wander into the grocery store they passed by earlier, walk through the aisles as Ryuji exclaims loudly about how cheap everything is. (“ _Man, all you can get in Tokyo for this price is, like, an egg!” “Keep talking like that and you’re going to end up offending someone, Ryuji.”)_

They pass by the same playground as before. Akira directs them through an old shopping street, watches with amusement as Ryuji oohs and ahs over all the various stores, as if you can’t find the exact same stuff in Tokyo. At a mochi store a friendly-looking middle aged woman says, “Oh, Akira-kun! Who’s this handsome young man you’re with? I’ve never seen him around here before,” and although he knows it’s just a ploy to get him to buy her stuff he decides to humor her anyway, buys a packet of handmade mochi and splits it with Akira as they continue with their walk.

They pass by Akira’s old elementary school, and then his middle school barely ten minutes away. They’re both a lot smaller than Shujin, or any of the schools Ryuji’s been to for that matter. Ryuji tries to picture Akira in middle school, awkward and acne-ridden, but he can’t quite imagine it, somehow.

Their final destination is a cluster of eateries and bars, just as the sun is starting to set. Akira leads Ryuji into a ramen store, and Ryuji practically lights up.

“Dude,” he breathes. “You’re the _best_.”

“You’re just too predictable,” Akira replies, but he looks pleased anyway.

The ramen is good, although not as good as the one from Ogikubo. Still, it’s okay, because he’s here with Akira, and they haven’t done this in way too long. Even before Akira moved away, the whole Phantom Thieves business meant that they could never find the time to just hang out and have dinner together like this. There were more important things on their minds, after all.

But now that everything is over, it feels okay to just act like regular teenagers again.

Over the course of dinner Ryuji can’t help but shoot furtive looks at Akira over his bowl. It’s just… he can’t believe he’s doing this, that he’s actually here, in Akira’s hometown. Akira warned him that there’s nothing here, and in retrospect, he wasn’t wrong. Everything here is…  whatever the opposite of claustrophobic is—too wide, too spacious. Ryuji’s used to cramped corners and crowded streets. He’s not used to the space here.

So no, Akira wasn’t wrong, but neither was Ryuji, because it doesn’t matter that there’s nothing to do here. Not when Akira’s here too, sitting across from him and slurping inelegantly from his bowl of ramen.

Akira looks up, catches Ryuji’s eye.

“What are you smiling at?” Akira asks.

 _You,_ Ryuji thinks.

“It’s good ramen,” he says instead, and grins.

There’s nothing here, in this sleepy suburban town so far away from everything Ryuji has ever known, but he thinks he wouldn’t mind staying here anyway, not if it meant Akira was here too. Just like this, just the two of them, as if nothing else could possibly matter.

-

They make their way back home after that, because as Ryuji discovers, if you’re not old enough to drink there’s absolutely nothing to do after dark. They walk slowly, the streets dark, illuminated only by the yellow glow of the occasional streetlamp. Nothing like Tokyo, always constantly bright from the lights of a million stores and homes and neon signs. It’s quiet here, peaceful. In a few months the nights are going to be sweltering with humidity, the sound of crickets keeping him up. For now, though, a cool breeze sweeps through the streets and tickles Ryuji’s skin, makes the tree leaves rustle.

“Let’s go runnin’ tomorrow,” Ryuji says. “You know any good places? There was that park we passed by earlier, right?”

Akira considers this. “I do go there sometimes to run. Or sometimes I just do laps around the neighborhood. There’s a bigger park, on the other side of town. We’ll have to take a bus though.”

They spend the whole walk talking, making plans, cracking stupid jokes. It’s nice. Ryuji notices Akira shiver a little, pull the ends of his sweatshirt over his hands. His shirt does look a little too thin for the cool night air. For a brief moment he considers offering Akira his own jacket, and then dismisses the idea immediately. _That’s just weird, man,_ he scolds himself. _And besides, it ain’t even_ that _cold._

They’re almost back at Akira’s house when both their phones buzz at the same time. Ryuji pulls his phone out of his pocket, flips it open to see a new text message on the group chat.

 **Ann:** How’s the suburban life going, Ryuji?

He looks up, exchanges a glance with Akira, and then they both turn back to their phones.

 **Ryuji:** Eh, pretty boring.

 **Akira:** Rude.

 **Futaba:** Yeah Ryuji, rude much!

 **Haru:** Come now, we all know Ryuji’s joking. You’re having fun, aren’t you?

Ryuji looks up again, but Akira’s still looking down at his phone, smiling fondly. _A month and a half_ , Ryuji thinks. He gets to see all their friends every single day, but Akira hasn’t met them even once since he moved out.

He turns back to his phone before Akira can catch him staring.

 **Ryuji:** Yeah, I am, actually.

 **Yusuke:** Make sure to take some good photos, Ryuji. I’m hoping to use them as references for an art piece.

 **Ryuji:** Why couldn’t you have just asked Akira?! He lives here!

 **Yusuke:** An outsider’s perspective is much more refreshing.

 **Futaba:** You tell him, Inari!

 **Ryuji:** Wait, so you’re on _his_ side now?!

 **Makoto:** Why do I always end up being the adult in these situations?

 **Haru:** But you’re having fun too, aren’t you Mako-chan?

 **Makoto:** Well…

 **Ann:** Wait! Ryuji and Akira, take a selfie for us!

 **Haru:** Ooh, yes, I second that!

Ryuji exchanges another look with Akira, and the expression on Akira’s face is a mixture of exasperation and fondness. Ryuji’s stomach clenches again, the way it did back at the train station, when Akira rubbed his thumb across the edge of the replica mask and smiled sadly.

“How about under that streetlamp?” Akira suggests.

“Huh? Oh yeah, sure.”

They move to stand under it. Akira lifts his phone, and Ryuji looks up at the screen, their faces inches apart. The light from the streetlamp glints off Akira’s glasses, highlights his hair, his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose.

“Here goes,” Akira says, and then Ryuji’s turning to look at the camera lens instead of at their faces on the screen, beaming widely as Akira takes the photo.

Akira sends the selfie to the group chat while they continue walking. Ryuji gives it a closer look. The lighting’s terrible, and the photo’s grainy, but they’re both smiling, Akira’s soft smile next to Ryuji’s almost-manic grin.

 **Ann:** Aww, you guys! You’re so cute!

 **Futaba:** Careful, or you’re going to blow up both their egos.

 **Ryuji:** Hey! Who’s the rude one now?!

Later, when Akira’s in the shower and Ryuji’s sitting on his futon in Akira’s room, alone, he pulls up the photo again, gives it a long look, and then saves it to his photo gallery.

He shoves his phone back into his pocket, and it feels like a secret, somehow, tucked close against his chest.

-

Ryuji wakes up along with the first rays of sunshine, as he does every single day like clockwork. Even when he’d spent the day before infiltrating a Palace, he still woke up bright and early with the sunrise without fail. It’s one of those habits he just can’t seem to shake.

Akira’s still fast asleep, so Ryuji pads to the bathroom as quietly as he can manage, washes up and gets dressed before heading downstairs. He wanders into Akira’s kitchen and starts poking around, looking for food. The kitchen is huge, way bigger than the tiny one in Ryuji’s own apartment. It’s also surprisingly well-stocked, considering the fact that the only person who uses it is a seventeen-year-old teenage boy. Ryuji has a brief vision of Akira coming home after a long day at school, cooking his own meals instead of having a warm dinner already waiting for him at the end of the day. He banishes the idea as quickly as it came, distracts himself with making some rice instead. He saw some eggs in the fridge earlier, and soy sauce in one of the cabinets. Rice with egg for breakfast sounds good.

He washes the rice and loads up the rice cooker, but he still has some time to kill while waiting for it to cook. Judging by the way Akira was sprawled out across the diagonal length of his bed earlier, he’s probably not going to join the land of the living any time soon. Ryuji wanders out into the living room while waiting. He’d only given it a couple of cursory glances yesterday, when he first entered Akira’s home, and then again when they returned from dinner. Like the rest of the house, it’s clean, neat and unexceptional. It’s pretty obvious Akira doesn’t spend a lot of time here. The only things of interest in the entire room are the game consoles that sit on the coffee table in front of the TV. Ryuji makes a mental note to ask Akira about it later before moving into the front hallway.

The family photos he noticed yesterday are hanging on the wall. There are four in total, framed side-by-side, the exact same size and with the exact same frames. Ryuji peers at them one-by-one.

The first one is just of Akira’s parents; it looks old, and they look young in the photo. They’re standing in front of this very house, Ryuji realizes, and Akira’s mother is visibly pregnant. They stand side by side, pressed together, Akira’s father’s arm slung casually around her shoulder. Their happiness is evident, even just from looking at an old photograph, the both of them practically radiating with it. Akira’s mother is gorgeous; she’s a slender, birdlike woman with long straight hair, and she has Akira’s eyes, or rather Akira has _her_ eyes. His father is tall and handsome, broad shoulders and tanned skin, his hair a mess of curls too.

Akira’s in the next photo, a tiny infant in his mother’s arms, all chubby cheeks and stubby fingers. It looks like a candid photo. They seem to be at some sort of party, family friends and relatives milling about in the background. In the center of the photo Akira’s parents sit on a sofa, baby Akira balanced in his mother’s lap. He’s pointing at something in the distance, outside of the frame, mouth hanging open, midway through some incomprehensible baby talk. His mother looks down at him, smiling fondly, and Akira’s father has a hand on her back, smiling too.

The third photo is probably of Akira’s first day of elementary school, if Ryuji were to guess. He’s standing right outside his own front door, and he’s wearing a school uniform, clean and pristine, his shirt hanging just a little too loose off his bony shoulders. He’s grinning widely at the camera, one hand held out in a peace sign while the other one clutches at the strap of his backpack. His hair is cut shorter than it is now, but the frizzy curls are still unmistakable. His mother kneels next to him, beaming. His father is absent; he was probably the one taking the photo.

In the last photo of the series Akira’s grown significantly taller. He’s taller than his mother now, though still shorter than his father, and his hair’s grown out too. He looks a lot like he does now, except smaller and younger and not wearing glasses. Middle school Akira, Ryuji thinks. It looks like a vacation photo. A cloudless blue sky stretches on and on behind them, seemingly infinite, blanketing a series of mountains in the distance. Akira’s smiling that small, secretive smile that’s all too familiar. He looks happy, a simple, easy kind of happiness, still unburdened by everything that would eventually happen to him just a few years later. It suddenly occurs to Ryuji that when he met Akira, he was at the lowest point of his life—criminal record, branded as a delinquent, alone in a big city without a single friend.

Together, Akira and his parents look like the perfect family, the kind you see in the stock photos they put in photo frames at gift shops. It feels strange. Akira’s parents look so perfect, so blissfully happy, but Ryuji hates them anyway, hates them for what they’ve done to their son.

“You’re up early,” Morgana says from behind him.

Ryuji jumps right out of his own skin. He whirls around, heart thumping in his chest like he’s just run a marathon. Morgana sits on the floor, gazing up at Ryuji with glittering blue eyes.

“Jesus!” Ryuji hisses. He keeps his voice down, aware that Akira’s still fast asleep upstairs. “Don't just sneak up on me like that, dammit!”

 “In that case you shouldn’t be snooping,” Morgana replies easily. Ryuji turns away, cheeks burning.

“Wasn’t snoopin’,” he mutters, but he sounds guilty even to his own ears.

“If you have questions you should just ask him, you know,” Morgana says. “Or me, I guess.”

Ryuji looks back at Morgana, squinting down at him. It’s hard to parse Morgana’s facial expressions. He’s an effing cat, after all.

“What are Akira’s parents like?” he asks, after a long pause. Morgana… well, he doesn’t shrug, because cats don’t have shoulders, but he gives Ryuji a look that makes it seem like he’s shrugging. Ryuji has no idea how Morgana does it, but he decides it’s probably wiser not to ask.

“I don’t know,” Morgana replies. “I’ve never met them.”

Right. That makes sense. Morgana’s only been living with Akira for a month and a half, after all.

“Do they… do they call home? Does Akira talk to them a lot?” he asks. Morgana gives him a long, searching look, and Ryuji forces himself to maintain eye contact, even though all he wants to do is look away.

“Sometimes,” is Morgana’s cryptic answer. “Maybe you should be asking Akira himself about it, though.”

Ryuji opens his mouth, decides against whatever he’s about to say, and then closes it again.

“I think the rice cooker’s done,” Morgana says at last. Ryuji practically sags in relief. He escapes to the kitchen before Morgana can say anything else. It’s way too early in the morning for this.

-

When Akira finally makes his way downstairs, bleary-eyed and rumpled, his hair even more of a mess than it usually is, Ryuji’s already done with his breakfast. He looks up at Akira, grinning sheepishly.

“I got hungry,” he says, in lieu of an apology, but Akira isn’t even looking at him. He’s staring at the bowl of rice next to Ryuji’s own empty bowl instead, eyes wide.

“You… made me breakfast?” he says, slowly.

“Uh,” Ryuji says. “Yes?”

“Holy shit,” Akira breathes. “You’re incredible.”

And then he sits down next to Ryuji, grabs the bowl, and starts shoving the rice into his mouth like he’s a man who’s been trapped on a desert island for a month.

Ryuji just watches him, blinking. Akira’s halfway through his meal before he finally sets the bowl down.

“Sorry,” he says, grimacing. Ryuji’s so busy staring at the grain of rice that’s stuck to Akira’s cheek that he doesn’t realize Akira’s speaking until he’s already midway through his sentence. “I always wake up starving, but I never have time to make a proper breakfast, so I usually just end up eating bread.” He laughs. “Sojiro spoiled me—he used to make me curry for breakfast every single day, even on weekdays. I can’t get used to not eating a full meal for breakfast anymore.”

“Uh,” Ryuji says again, because he wasn’t paying attention to anything Akira was saying. So instead he says, “You’ve got rice on your,” and then points to the corresponding spot on his own cheek.

Akira flushes. He wipes at his cheek with his thumb, but misses.

“Is it gone?”

“No, it’s more of… to the right,” Ryuji says. Akira tries, and misses again.

“Just wipe it off for me,” Akira tells him. Ryuji’s face goes hot.

“What—no way, man! Do it yourself!”

Akira sighs, and then drags the back of his hand across his entire face, from cheek to cheek. He finally gets it off like that, pulling back to inspect the grain of rice now stuck to the back of his hand. He flicks it off easily.

“Thanks,” Akira mutters, and then goes back to attacking his breakfast.

Ryuji watches him eat, and thinks about how skinny Akira was, back when they first met, and then about Akira standing in the middle of that huge kitchen, making dinner for himself, and then about those family photos out in the hallway.

“Hey, Akira…”

“Hmm?”

Akira looks up, his mouth full with rice.

“Never mind,” Ryuji replies. It feels like the wrong moment to ask, so he changes the subject, starts talking instead about how excited he is to go running later today. If Akira notices that there’s anything wrong, he doesn't give any indication of it, and for that, Ryuji is grateful.

-

They decide to go running at the bigger park at the edge of town. It’s really more of a forest than a park, with long, winding trails bracketed by trees so tall they seem to swallow up the sky. Ryuji loves it. It’s exactly what he’s always dreamed of: running through nature, the wind on his back, the noise of the city far behind him.

They run side by side. Ryuji keeps pace with Akira, who, true to his word, has definitely been keeping up with his training, but he’s still slower than Ryuji. It’s fine, though. It’s a nice, leisurely jog, and Ryuji can focus his attention on the nature surrounding him. They pass by a number of people: elderly couples on a stroll, families with wide-eyed children, other runners who nod at them as they cross paths. The trail they’re following takes them over a bridge, and Ryuji gapes at the stream underneath them, the water clear and cool. Occasionally there’s the sound of birdsong, coming from high up in the trees.

It’s nothing like Ryuji’s ever experienced.

The only times Ryuji has ever left Tokyo was on that school trip to Hawaii, and once on a field trip to Kyoto, way back in elementary school. Both times he found his days so jam-packed with activity that he never got the chance to just… relax, soak in his surroundings. And yeah, Ryuji knows he’s a city kid through and through, but this is nice too. It’s relaxing. It’s the most peaceful he’s felt in a long time.

Neither of them say a thing all throughout the run; every time Ryuji shoots a glance over to Akira he looks deep in thought. Ryuji’s not quite sure if he’s just focusing on his running technique or if he’s actually thinking about something, but either way he doesn’t want to interrupt, and the silence is a comfortable one anyway. There’s no need for words between them.

Ryuji’s not sure how long they run for, but when they finally reach the end of the trail Akira immediately collapses onto the nearest park bench, red-faced and panting. Ryuji stands in front of him, hands on hips and grinning. He’s breathing heavily too, but it’s pretty obvious that Akira’s a lot more winded than Ryuji is.

“You’re a monster,” Akira gasps. Ryuji’s grin widens.

“Yeah, well,” Ryuji says. “Maybe you just haven’t been trainin’ hard enough.”

Akira aims a kick at Ryuji’s shin. He misses by a very wide berth.

“Okay, but seriously,” Ryuji says. “That was pretty good, considerin’ you’ve only been runnin’ casually on your own.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Akira says.

“Come on, man, don’t be like that!” Ryuji complains. Akira gives Ryuji a little conciliatory grimace, and Ryuji sits down on the bench next to him, leaning back and tilting his head up to the sky. There are fewer trees out here, at the start of the trail, which means a better view of the sky. It’s a nice, cool day; the sun on Ryuji’s face is pleasantly warm.

“You know,” Ryuji says, kicking the balls of his feet against the ground, “back when I was still on the track team, my events were the fifteen hundred and five thousand meter races. People’re always surprised when I tell them that—everyone usually just assumes I’m a sprinter, yeah?” Akira hums in agreement next to him; Ryuji doesn’t turn to look, just smiles to himself. “But nah, I’ve always been a long distance kinda guy. And I was pretty good. Not tryin’ to brag, but… I mean, even in my first year I was already competin’ at meets. I was faster than some of the third-years, even. I think that’s why the other first-years were so pissed at me after the Kamoshida incident—it was like, I’d already had the chance to compete, but they never did. And when the track team got disbanded, it was like they’d never get that chance again.”

Ryuji exhales through his nose, a long, steady breath. He folds his hands together in this lap, leaning forward. “Truth be told, I don’t really miss the competin’ part of it. I just liked runnin’, y’know? I liked challengin’ myself to get better, to get faster. That’s why I don’t really miss the track team. I’m good just runnin’ on my own.”

Ryuji finally turns to look at Akira, and Akira’s looking back at him, his gaze thoughtful. There’s just something about that look of his that always makes Ryuji feel like he can say anything. It’s what makes people trust Akira so much. Ryuji flashes Akira a smile. “I’ve been trainin’ up for a half-marathon, actually. It’s honestly kinda terrifyin’—I’ve never run anythin’ that long before. But I wanna do it. Just for myself. And maybe one day I’ll be good enough to do the Tokyo Marathon. Who knows, y’know?”

Akira smiles at him, gently. His gaze is warm, and there’s a warmth in Ryuji’s chest too, a familiar kind of warmth that Akira’s presence always seems to bring. “You can do it,” he says, his voice gentle. “I know you can.”

Ryuji smiles back crookedly, helpless to the flood of joy that threatens to burst right through his chest. “Thanks, man,” he says, and stands up quickly, before he can say something stupid. He raises his arms up, stretching, then turns to Akira with a grin. “Now let’s get some food!”

-

Akira shows him around this side of town, which appears to be the more exciting side. There’s a movie theatre, an arcade, and a bunch of fashion stores. It’s also where the local high school is (the one that Akira got kicked out of, and the one that he just returned to). They pass by it, on the way to lunch, and Ryuji pauses outside the school gates, staring up at the building, trying to size it up. He’s seen Akira’s new school uniform hanging up in his room, a simple navy blue blazer with gray slacks. He wonders what this school is like, if Akira has friends, if they’re treating him well. He wonders if Akira’s now-expunged criminal record still hangs over him, if people pause in the hallways to whisper about him, the way they did in Shujin. He wonders if Akira’s happy here.

“What are you doing?” Akira asks.

“Nothin’,” Ryuji says, and keeps walking.

They spend the day wandering around this part of town. They have lunch at a Big Bang Burger, and Ryuji knows he probably shouldn’t be surprised that there’s a Big Bang out here (it’s not like they’re in the _mountains_ or some shit), but he is anyway, spends the entire time gaping at his Moon Burger as if confetti is going to burst from the ceiling and a flag with the words _just kidding! You got punk’d_ is going to suddenly pop right out of his tray.

“I know this is news to you,” Akira says, his eyes gleaming with amusement, “but not everything outside of Toyko is rural countryside.”

“Shuddup! I know that,” Ryuji huffs. “It’s just…” He trails off, inspecting his burger again. It looks exactly the same as the ones he gets from Shibuya all the time. In fact, it might actually look even better. He gestures at the burger with his free hand, trying to look as scandalized as possible. “It’s _Big Bang!_ ”

“And Okumura Foods will be pleased to know it’s doing well here too,” Akira says, popping a fry into his mouth.

They get home just before the sun starts to set, because Akira insists on making dinner as thanks for Ryuji’s breakfast this morning. Ryuji protests that breakfast literally took no effort whatsoever, but Akira isn’t having any of it, sends Ryuji into the living room with a video game while he cooks.

At some point Morgana joins him, curling up next to him on the couch as Ryuji murders some zombies on Akira’s TV.

“Have you asked him yet?” Morgana asks.

“Go away,” Ryuji replies. If he finds himself mashing the buttons on the controller just a little too hard, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

-

Akira has made curry for dinner. All it takes is a single taste for Ryuji to realize it’s Leblanc’s recipe. He looks up from his plate to see Akira smiling almost shyly at him.

“It’s freakin’ delicious, man!” Ryuji exclaims. Akira’s smile widens.

“I learned from the best,” he says, wistfully. The smile on Ryuji’s face falters.

“Hey,” he says, quietly. He pushes the rice on his plate around with his spoon. Suddenly he doesn’t feel particularly hungry anymore. “Do you miss it?”

“Of course I miss it,” Akira starts to say, but Ryuji cuts him off.

“I don’t just mean Tokyo,” he says. “I mean… everythin'.”

Akira puts his spoon down.

“Of course I miss it,” he says again, his voice lower this time, and Ryuji knows, right then, that Akira gets it.

Ryuji exhales.

“Sometimes,” he confesses, “everythin’ still feels unreal, in comparison to the Metaverse. Sometimes it feels like _that_ was real life, and everythin’ now is just… a bad knock-off.”

“Like a dream,” Akira says. “And all you want to do is wake up.”

“Yeah.” Ryuji looks down at his plate, his heart caught in his throat. “Yeah. Exactly.”

He’s never talked about this. He _can’t_ talk about this. Everyone else seems to have moved on perfectly. Makoto and Haru are having the time of their lives in college. Futaba’s doing her best, easing herself into the rhythms of high school. Yusuke spends all day painting and painting. Ann’s busy all the time now, running from one photoshoot to the next.

Ryuji used to think he was the only one who couldn’t move on, who couldn’t convince himself that this normal lifestyle was exactly what he wanted, but now he knows Akira feels the same way, and he feels stupid for thinking, even for a second, that he was alone in this.

“It’s like,” Ryuji continues, the words suddenly spilling out of him in a rush, words that he’s wanted to say since Christmas Eve but kept getting stuck in the back of his throat before they could leave his mouth, “how can I be okay with livin’ normally when I used to have so much more? It’s like everyone’s pretendin’ the whole Phantom Thieves thing never happened. And they’re all goin’ somewhere, goin’ places, but I’m still stuck here ‘cause I can’t forget. I tried dyein’ my hair back to black, livin’ a regular student life, but I still can’t forget.” He looks down at his palms, and suddenly wishes, almost painfully, that there were a pair of yellow gloves covering them. “I can’t forget… I don’t _wanna_ forget. Bein’ a Phantom Thief was the most alive I’ve ever felt, and now without it, it’s just… empty. I try to go runnin’, to recapture that feelin’, but it’s not the same. It won’t ever be the same.”

He looks up helplessly, and Akira’s eyes are glued to his face, as if he’s searching for something in Ryuji’s expression. Ryuji knows what Akira’s seeing—desperation, pain, longing, loss. He feels vulnerable, but he leans into it, lets Akira see it all because he knows Akira understands. Akira’s the only one who does, the only one who knows Ryuji like this, and he thinks it should frighten him but it doesn’t. It doesn’t frighten him at all.

“I dream about it,” Akira says, still looking directly at Ryuji. “It always feels so real. Sometimes I’m in Kamoshida’s castle; sometimes I’m in the casino; sometimes I’m in Mementos. But the one thing that remains the same is that every time I wake up, I’m always disappointed.”

Ryuji thinks, suddenly, about the replica mask sitting on Akira’s desk. The way he’d looked at it, at the train station. The pad of his thumb, running round and round the edge of it, so gently that it made Ryuji’s heart ache.

“I knew you’d get it,” Ryuji says, suddenly breathless. “I knew you would.”

A pause. Akira looks down and smiles, gently.

“Well,” he says, softly. “It all started with you, after all.”

-

Later that night, while Ryuji’s lying on his futon in the dark, he remembers Morgana’s words from before.

“Akira?” he whispers. He doesn’t get a reply. Asleep, probably.

Ryuji sighs, rolls over, and closes his eyes.

-

Ryuji wakes up early again. When he glances at Akira he’s fast asleep, curled up under his comforter.

He washes up, then pads downstairs carefully. He hears the sounds of people talking, which is concerning, but when he reaches the bottom of the stairs he realizes it’s just the TV. And then he realizes that Morgana is watching it.

“Do you ever act like a normal cat?” he asks.

“No,” Morgana answers, not even bothering to look in Ryuji’s direction.

Ryuji sighs, but he sits down on the couch next to where Morgana’s made himself comfortable. The morning news is on, and the news anchors are discussing the policies of the new Diet. After the whole Shido incident the prosecutor’s office spent months ferreting out all of his accomplices, and then they held another election to fill in the now-empty positions. It still feels a little weird to Ryuji, knowing that he had a hand in all this. He doesn’t know a whole lot about politics, but at least the country’s gone back to normal now.

 _Back to normal._ He thinks about his conversation with Akira last night.

“Hey, Morgana?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you… miss the Metaverse?”

There’s a measured pause. Morgana turns towards Ryuji, resting his chin on his paws.

“I miss my other form,” he says, carefully. “There’s not a lot I can do as a regular cat. And I miss everyone, obviously. But I don’t miss the danger, or the fighting. I’m quite content with my life now, as a regular house pet.”

“Really?” Ryuji raises his eyebrows. “You… you’re not bored or anythin’?”

Morgana blinks. “Sometimes,” he admits. “But it’s peaceful here, and Akira takes care of me. That’s good enough for me.”

“Then you’re not… lonely?” Ryuji asks. He wonders if the question is too personal. He and Morgana never really did get along, and they’ve never spent time together like this, just the two of them. Every time they saw each other it was as a group, or with Akira.

Still, he has to know. He has to ask.

Morgana takes his time before answering. He licks his paws, looking deep in thought.

“No,” he finally says. “I was alone before, but I’m not any longer; I have a family now. I don’t think I could possibly be lonely, now that I have you guys.”

“Oh,” Ryuji says. Morgana looks up at him, his eyes bright.

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” he asks.

“Uh,” Ryuji says. “Maybe?”

Morgana rolls his eyes at him. Wait, can cats even roll their eyes?

“If you’re just going to gape at me you might as well be useful,” Morgana says, hopping off the couch and padding towards the kitchen. “Get me breakfast!”

“The hell—you can’t boss me around like that!” Ryuji yells, but he follows Morgana anyway.

He’s just done pouring out Morgana’s cat food into his bowl when Akira steps into the kitchen, yawning loudly. His glasses are askew, his shirt rumpled.

“Oh,” he says, when he sees Ryuji kneeling down in front of Morgana’s bowl, a packet of cat food in his hand. “Thanks for helping me feed him.”

“Nah, I just did it so he’d stop complainin’,” Ryuji says. Morgana looks up at him, eyes narrowed, but probably decides it isn’t worth it, and goes back to scarfing his breakfast down instead.

Akira nods, then crosses the kitchen to crack the fridge door open. He sticks his head in, wrinkles his nose at whatever he finds in there. He eventually grabs a jar of marmalade, then shuts the fridge door before grabbing a loaf of bread on the counter.

“You know, you _could_ just make some rice,” Ryuji says. “It ain’t that hard.”

“Too hungry, can’t wait,” Akira says, before shoving an entire slice of bread into his mouth while he works on spreading the marmalade over a second slice. Ryuji watches him work, sighing.

“Then why don’t you just make breakfast the night before, and then heat it up in the mornin’?”

Akira suddenly freezes.

“You… never thought of that?” Ryuji asks.

“Shut up,” Akira mutters. The tips of his ears are tinted faintly pink.

“Okay,” Ryuji says, grinning, and then grabs a slice of bread of his own.

-

They go running again, although just at the nearby park this time, and Morgana decides to come with them. He serves as a referee as Ryuji and Akira race each other, sprinting from one end of the park to the other. Akira’s no match for Ryuji when it comes to long distance running, but they’re pretty evenly matched when it comes to sprints. They do a best of three match, and Ryuji wins, but narrowly. Afterwards, all three of them lie on the grass, looking up at the clouds until it starts to rain, and then they’re running again, but back home this time to avoid getting soaked.

So now they’re trapped at home, because the light drizzle from before has morphed into a thunderstorm. Akira makes lunch, and afterwards they play video games, the both of them battling it out on Super Smash Bros while Morgana offers commentary from the side, cheering whenever Akira lands a hit and booing loudly at Ryuji, that asshole.

Afterwards, when they get bored of the game, Morgana heads upstairs to take a nap, and Akira and Ryuji just sprawl out on the couch, talking.

“I can’t believe I’m leaving tomorrow,” Ryuji sighs. Akira’s couch is positioned in an L-shape, and they lie on each end, their heads in the middle. If Ryuji tilts his head back he can sort of look at Akira’s face. It’s a weird angle, and eventually Ryuji decides to just look up at the ceiling, his hands folded on top of his stomach. Outside the storm brews on; he can hear the sound of rain battering against the windows, the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance.

“I’ll visit in the summer,” Akira promises.

“But summer is _months_ away, man,” Ryuji complains.

“Well, you’re lucky,” Akira says. “You get to see everyone once you’re home.”

Ryuji freezes.

He suddenly senses the fragility of this moment; he gets the feeling that he needs to be careful about what he says next. He pauses, swallowing.

“It’s not the same,” he says, slowly, “without you there.”

Akira shifts himself into a sitting position, and like this, Ryuji can finally get a good look at Akira’s face. It also means Akira can look at him too, and for a long moment they just look at each other. Ryuji’s mouth is suddenly dry.

“Everyone misses you, you know,” Ryuji continues, and shit, he’s babbling now, stop babbling, dammit. “We don’t… we don’t really hang out as a group much anymore. It just feels wrong, without you. Sometimes we drop by Leblanc, but it’s not the same. Your old bedroom’s back to being a regular storage space now, and… people miss you. We all miss you, is my point.” He abruptly falls silent, and Akira keeps looking down at him, his expression unreadable.

“Thanks,” Akira says, finally. Ryuji wrinkles his brow.

“What’re you thankin’ me for?” he asks.

Akira shrugs.

“Just in general,” he says.

Ryuji is silent. What the hell is he supposed to say, in response to something like that?

“I think,” Ryuji says, after a long pause, “I should be the one thankin’ you. We all should, really. After all, you helped all of us, yeah? We talk about it, sometimes. I mean, you helped me with the track team, right? And Ann with Shiho, and Yusuke with his art, and Haru with her family’s company… Point is, you helped all of us, but we just—”

“Helped me save the world,” Akira interrupts, smiling. Ryuji frowns up at him.

“But—”

“And tracked down the witness from the incident that got me arrested in the first place,” Akira continues. “So that I could come home.”

 _That’s not enough,_ Ryuji wants to say. _That’s nothin’ compared to what you’ve done for all of us. For me._

“We were just repayin’ a debt,” Ryuji mutters. “You got sent to juvie because of us. You took the fall for us.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Akira says quietly, and the pressure that’s been building in Ryuji’s chest all day, ever since that conversation last night, suddenly reaches a breaking point and bursts. He scrambles up into a standing position, pushes himself off the couch. He paces in front of the couch, scrubs his hands through his hair, because that’s all he can do not to just end up _yelling_ from the frustration of it all.

“’The right thing to do’— _Jesus_ , Akira! When’s the last goddamn time you did _anything_ for yourself!”

Akira is silent. Ryuji continues pacing.

“You’re always _helping_ people, but when was the last time _we_ helped you out? And don’t pull the Phantom Thieves bullshit again, that wasn’t— _helping_ you, we all had our own reasons too. And now that the Phantom Thieves are gone you’re just… here, alone, bored out of your goddamn mind, and then even your own damn parents abandoned you—“

“Is that what this is all about? My parents?” Akira looks back at Ryuji, defiant, and it suddenly occurs to Ryuji that they’re having a fight. Their first and only fight, because they’ve never argued with each other the entire time they’ve known each other, not even once. Panic suddenly surges up in Ryuji, the urge to _apologize, say sorry, back down_ almost overwhelming. Ryuji doesn’t want to fight with Akira, but… but sometimes, there are things worth fighting over.

“You never told us,” Ryuji says. “You never said that you were alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Akira returns. There’s a pregnant pause. “I don’t mind being alone,” he amends.

“How could you not mind?” Ryuji fires back, disbelief coloring his voice. Akira looks away.

“I don’t mind now,” he says, and he suddenly sounds careful, like he’s choosing his words deliberately. “Maybe I did, at first, but I’m all right now.”

Ryuji’s silent, waiting for Akira to go on. Akira’s still not looking at him.

“I got used to it,” Akira finishes, at last.

“I can’t believe I’m hearin’ that from you,” Ryuji says, his voice low. “ _Get used to it?_ What the hell happened to standin’ up for what’s right? If everyone on the volleyball team’d just _gotten used_ to Kamoshida—”

“That’s not the same thing.” Akira’s voice is cold as ice.

“It’s _exactly_ the same thing!”

“You don’t know anything,” Akira insists. “They didn’t—they didn’t just _leave_ me. We talked about it before they left. I told them I’d be fine. I _told_ them to go.”

“Doesn’t make it any better,” Ryuji snaps.

“Just because you have your own _abandonment issues_ doesn’t mean you get to project them—”

And then Akira must see something in Ryuji’s expression because he stops talking abruptly. The fury in his face melts away, replaced by something approaching horror, mixed in with a large dose of shame.

Ryuji feels like he’s just been slapped right across the face.

“I’m sorry,” Akira says. His voice is so gentle that it just makes everything hurt even more. “Ryuji, I’m sorry. I went too far, I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Ryuji says. His voice sounds dead. Emotionless. “No, you’re right.”

He wants to go—somewhere, anywhere. But he’s in Akira’s house; there’s nowhere for him to go but out.

Akira doesn’t try to stop him as he slips on his shoes and walks out the front door. It’s only when he’s already outside that he realizes it’s still raining.

Fuck. No turning back now.

Ryuji squares his shoulders, and then he runs.

-

He ends up doing laps around the neighborhood. The thunderstorm’s let up a little, but the rain still isn’t exactly light. Ryuji’s aware that he’s soaking wet, but thankfully the streets are empty, and he doesn’t run into anyone. Still, anyone who’s looking out their windows is probably going to think he’s a maniac, but Ryuji honestly can’t bring himself to care.

He’s not sure how long he ends up running for, but by the time he ends up outside Akira’s doorstep again the sun’s already beginning to set.

Ryuji pushes the front door, testing it—it’s unlocked, so he steps inside cautiously, aware that he’s dripping all over the doormat.

Morgana’s sitting right there, a towel lying on the ground next to him.

“You’re still an idiot,” he says, then grabs the towel with his teeth and drops it at Ryuji’s feet. Before Ryuji can even begin to formulate a reply, Morgana’s already walking away, tail held high behind him as he goes.

Ryuji picks it up off the floor gingerly. He tries to dry himself off, but it really is a lost cause. He’s starting to get cold. He wrings his soaked shirt, winces when he sees the puddle of water that’s formed at his feet. One more thing he has to apologize to Akira about.

He makes one last attempt at drying himself, ruffling his hair with the towel, then drapes it over his shoulders before setting out to look for Akira. It doesn’t take long—just a few steps, to be precise—before he walks into the dining room and sees Akira sitting there, two plates of curry set down on the table in front of him.

Akira looks up when Ryuji walks in. They stare at each other for a long moment.

Then:

“I’m sorry,” they both say at the same time.

Ryuji blinks; Akira looks equally startled. And then he laughs, and Ryuji thinks it’s okay for him to laugh too. At least Akira’s smiling now; at least he’s stopped looking so completely miserable.

“Let me go first,” Akira says. Ryuji nods. Akira inhales, then exhales through his nose, slowly, his shoulders falling along with his breathing. “I’m sorry for bringing up your father. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry.”

A pause. Akira cracks a wry smile at Ryuji, tilting his head to the side.

“Your turn,” he says.

“I’m sorry too,” Ryuji says, quickly. He needs to get the words out before he loses the nerve. “I’m sorry for yellin’ at you—you’re right, I _don’t_ know anythin’, I shouldn’t have… made assumptions. And you were right, I _do_ have issues, and I’m sorry for… what was the word? Projectin’?”

Akira looks like he’s about to say something, and so Ryuji blusters on, because if Akira says anything to him right now he’s going to fall apart right there, he’s not going to finish what he has to say. He’s thought about it the entire time he was out running, his mind turning over and over as he tried to parse his feelings, tried to think about what to say. He needs to get it out, because if he doesn’t do it now he’ll never say it, he’s going home tomorrow, and he’s going to regret it, it’s going to be on his mind all throughout the train ride back to Tokyo.

“But, um… you gotta know that I meant all that other stuff, about how you’re always doin’ shit for other people, but you never do anythin’ for yourself… ‘cause we’re all in Tokyo, together, and you’re the only one here, alone, and I don’t want you to be lonely.” Ryuji’s face is hot. It’s embarrassing, talking like this. It was embarrassing enough admitting to Akira, back in the Velvet Room, just how thankful Ryuji was that they even met at all, and now this—this is veering so far off the track that Ryuji has no idea where it’s going. It’s unfamiliar territory, it’s dangerous, it’s terrifying, but Ryuji keeps going. He has to keep going, because Akira has to know. He deserves to know.

“Just now, when I went out runnin’ I was just thinkin’… maybe the real reason I can’t move on from the Phantom Thieves is 'cause you’re not there in Tokyo anymore. It was only worth it ‘cause you were there, fightin’ with me, and maybe that’s why I’m so hung up over that. I ain’t got a purpose when you’re not there, and it sucks.”

“Ryuji—” Akira’s eyes are wide; he looks wretched.

“Let me finish,” Ryuji says. Begs. “Please.”

Akira is silent. Ryuji sighs, running a hand through his wet hair.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I went and made it all about myself again—that’s not what I wanted to say. My point was that… I don’t want you to not have a purpose too. You gotta do somethin’ for yourself too, man.”

Ryuji crosses the length of the table, coming round to the other side where Akira is sitting. Akira turns in his chair, turns so that he’s facing Ryuji, his eyes fixed on Ryuji’s face like there’s nothing else in this room, nothing else in this world. Ryuji’s heart suddenly speeds up in his chest.

“You gotta tell me,” Ryuji says, his voice suddenly low and quiet. “What is it that _you_ want?”

“I want,” Akira says, and his eyes flicker down to Ryuji’s mouth, and suddenly he’s not sitting down anymore.

It all happens so quickly. One second he’s sitting there, staring at Ryuji. The next, he’s launched himself up, grabbing Ryuji’s rain-soaked shirt in his fists, and pulling Ryuji down so he can lean in and press their mouths together.

Ryuji doesn’t even hesitate. His hands reach out, clutching Akira’s waist. He kisses back hungrily, ravenous for something he didn’t even know he’d been wanting all this time. He’s not even surprised. He thinks he’d known, somewhere, in the deepest depths of his mind, that this is what the two of them have been hurtling towards all this time, that this is where they’d end up eventually, that every single moment they've shared has been leading up to this. Akira shivers, and Ryuji can feel the tremors against his hands, his lips. His hands are broad against Akira’s narrow waist. Akira’s mouth is hot. The kiss is messy, desperate. Akira slides his tongue into Ryuji’s mouth, and Ryuji drags him closer, fingers inching under the soft fabric of Akira’s shirt, skating up against warm, bare skin.

It feels like an eternity when Akira finally pulls away. It might’ve been a minute. It might’ve been an hour. Ryuji has no idea. All he knows is that Akira’s face is flushed, and his lips are red, and his eyes are so bright, the brightest thing in the entire room.

“The curry,” Akira gasps.

“What?”

“It’ll get cold,” he says.

Ryuji’s eyes flicker to the plates of curry on the table, then back to Akira’s face. He grins, his smile going crooked.

“Eff the curry,” he says, and pulls Akira in again.

-

They do eventually eat dinner, when the grumbling of Ryuji’s stomach gets a little too loud to ignore. Akira pulls away, laughing, telling him to go get changed into something dry while he heats the curry up. When Ryuji comes back downstairs Akira’s sitting at the dinner table, waiting. Ryuji takes a seat across from him and digs into his food, delicious as always.

He can’t stop freaking smiling.

Morgana joins them at some point. Akira gives him some fish, and the three of them eat together. It’s weirdly not awkward.

Ryuji thinks it should probably be awkward. It should be awkward, right? He just made out with his best friend, and now they’re having dinner together with said best friend’s talking cat. But there’s a soft smile playing across Akira’s lips, and Ryuji keeps getting distracted by it every time he looks up from his plate, and Morgana just sits there, eating quietly, acting totally normal. Surely Morgana has to know that everything’s different now. Surely he should be able to tell, just by looking at them.

But instead the silence is comfortable, and Akira’s still smiling, so Ryuji thinks it’s probably okay to relax.

Well, not totally, because once Morgana’s done with his food, he turns to give Ryuji a _look_ before neatly jumping off the table and disappearing into the depths of the house.

So that’s that.

They take turns with the bathroom after that. Akira goes first, and while Ryuji’s waiting for him to be done with the shower he calls his mom. He’s lying down on his futon, staring up at the ceiling of Akira’s bedroom while waiting for her to pick up.

“Ryuji!” she chirps. Ryuji can’t help the smile that spreads across his face at the sound of her voice. “How are you?”

“I’m good, mom,” he says.

“Do you need me to come pick you up at the train station tomorrow?”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ll just take the subway.”

“Okay. How’s Akira, then?”

Ryuji feels his cheeks heat up. He rolls over, keeping his phone pressed against his ear.

“He’s good too,” he says, and thanks the gods that his voice comes out sounding relatively normal.

“Hmm,” his mother hums. Ryuji sucks in a breath. He’s not afraid of letting his mom find out, it’s just… not like this, not right now, not when everything still feels precious and fragile, like it could fall apart at any moment. Not when Ryuji still can’t quite believe it’s actually real himself.

“You sound happy,” his mother notes, after a long pause.

“Yeah?” he asks, his heart hammering.

“Yeah.” His mother laughs. “I’m glad you’re having fun over there.”

“I’m glad too,” Ryuji says. He smiles.

He tells her all about Akira’s town, the shopping street and the parks and having lunch at Big Bang Burger. He tells her about going running together, about that indescribable expanse of nature, about the wide empty streets and the feeling of grass and dirt beneath his shoes.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Akira walk into the room, hair wet, a towel thrown over his shoulders. He’s wearing a t-shirt that’s slightly too big for him, falling off one shoulder and exposing the pale skin there. Ryuji flushes red and averts his eyes.

“I gotta go,” he tells his mom. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Ryuji,” she says, and then he hangs up.

Akira’s towel-drying his hair when Ryuji gets to his feet. He flashes Akira a quick smile, then goes to take his shower. He spends a long time standing under the spray, letting the hot water soak through his skin, thinking about Akira’s smile, and Akira’s mouth, and how good it felt, then, to have him pressed close against Ryuji’s chest like that.

When Ryuji returns to Akira’s room, Akira’s sitting in front of his desk, looking at something on his laptop.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” he asks, crossing the room to stand next to Akira. Akira doesn’t reply, just swivels his laptop to the left so Ryuji can get a good look at the screen.

He realizes Akira’s looking at train tickets to Tokyo for the summer.

“Oh,” Ryuji says. His heart is doing donuts in his chest again. Akira turns to him and smiles.

“Summer’s only a few months away,” he says, and then Ryuji’s shutting the laptop and cupping Akira’s face in his hands.

“A few months is a long time,” Ryuji returns, and leans in.

-

Ryuji wakes up first thing in the morning as always, except he’s not in his tiny bedroom in Tokyo, or lying on a futon on Akira’s bedroom floor.

He shifts, slowly, trying not to wake Akira up. They’re tangled up together, legs intertwined. Akira’s face is pressed into Ryuji’s shoulder, his breath hot against Ryuji’s neck. Ryuji’s arm is slung casually around Akira’s waist. They’re pressed together so close that Ryuji can feel every single breath that Akira takes, the way his chest rises and falls with it.

Over the crown of Akira’s head, Ryuji can watch the sun slowly starting to make its way across the sky. Back home, the only view from Ryuji’s bedroom window was the apartment block across from his, and then if he looked down, he’d see cars stuck in traffic and people hurrying across the sidewalk, looking like ants. Outside Akira’s bedroom window, he can see fields of green, a train going by in the distance, the clear blue sky.

He really doesn’t want to go home.

In his arms Akira stirs, and Ryuji freezes, worried that he’s woken Akira up. But when Ryuji looks closer, Akira’s face is as peaceful as ever. Ryuji watches him for a moment, looks at his long eyelashes and pink lips, slightly parted. Looking at Akira’s mouth is making Ryuji think of last night, and he finds his cheeks going warm. His only source of comfort is the fact that nobody’s around to see him blushing like an idiot.

Last night, they kissed, and then talked, and then kissed some more. Akira pressed Ryuji back against his sheets, kissed him with a single-mindedness that reminded Ryuji of back when he used to be Joker all over again. And then afterwards Ryuji held himself up above Akira on his elbows, made Akira reach up for him, Akira’s hands sliding into his hair as they kissed, over and over again, until Ryuji’s lips were sore and any remaining coherent thought gave way to nothing but a steady stream of white noise and the thrum of his heart in his veins.

Ryuji said, “I don’t want you to be lonely.”

Akira said, “I’m not lonely. I have you guys.”

Ryuji said, “I think I was lonely too.”

Akira said, “Don’t be.”

Everything comes back to Ryuji now, in the bright sharpness of early daylight. It’s embarrassing in hindsight, but it’s not like anything he said last night wasn’t true. It needed—no, deserved to be said. He looks at Akira’s sleeping face now, runs his thumb across the plane of Akira’s cheekbones.

Everything feels more real now in the daylight, more visceral. So this is happening. It’s not a fever-dream that Ryuji’s brain concocted based on some stupid delusion. It’s real. It’s real, as real as Akira, fast asleep in his arms right now.

Ryuji suddenly feels awfully tender.

Slowly, he disentangles himself from Akira as carefully as possible, mindful not to wake him up. He pads into the bathroom, splashes water onto his face, then leans in towards the mirror, inspecting his reflection. He doesn’t really look particularly different. How is it that he doesn’t look different at all when _everything’s_ different now?

He washes up and gets dressed, then heads downstairs to make breakfast. There’s no Morgana in sight today, which is a huge relief. Ryuji doesn’t know if he can deal with him right now.

Akira stumbles downstairs when Ryuji’s almost done cooking.

“Mornin’,” he calls, and finally lets himself acknowledge the stupid things the sight of sleep-rumpled Akira does to his heart. Akira really is gorgeous. Ryuji thinks he’s known this for a while now, just never let the thought really sink in. It’s sinking in now, though, as he takes all of it in: Akira’s bedhead, his too-big shirt slipping off his shoulder, his crooked glasses and the faded mark on his cheek from where he’d fallen asleep with his face mashed against Ryuji’s neck.

“Sorry, I kinda raided your entire kitchen,” Ryuji continues. Akira shuffles next to him, staring down at the kitchen counter. “I’m almost done, though.”

“You made… Is that oyakodon?” Akira asks, disbelievingly.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Ryuji turns to Akira, suddenly nervous.

“Do I mind,” Akira mutters, and then leans in and kisses Ryuji. He breath is warm, and he tastes like toothpaste. It’s fucking amazing. Ryuji can’t believe this is his life now.

Ryuji’s train is in two hours. After breakfast, they go back to the park from yesterday, lie down on the grass and stare up at the sky. They can’t really do anything out here, not where people are watching, but this is nice too. It’s a clear, almost cloudless day, where the blue of the sky is so bright it’s almost blinding.

“I can’t believe we’re goin’ back to school tomorrow,” Ryuji mutters. Akira laughs.

“What are you going to do, when you graduate?” he asks.

Ryuji squints up at the sky. “I dunno,” he says. “I was thinkin’, maybe I could be a track coach someday.”

He turns to his head to side, and finds Akira looking back at him, his smile warm.

“I think that’s a great idea,” he says, quietly. Their hands brush, their pinkies intertwining for a moment. Ryuji grins back at him.

“Someday,” he says.

“Someday,” Akira echoes.

For the first time in a long time, Ryuji finds he isn’t missing the Metaverse any longer. Not when this is real life. Not when the rest of his life is stretching out far, far ahead of him, limitless and infinite, like the blue sky above them.


End file.
